


Carry me to Heaven's arms

by justmariamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Character Death, Falling In Love, Gun Violence, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mind Games, Moral Dilemmas, Moral Lessons, Murder, Nobody is Saint, Organized Crime, Protective Zachariah, Pyromania, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Some Humor, Suicide Attempt, in a bad way, it gets messed up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3689994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justmariamay/pseuds/justmariamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael agrees to gather evidence against his boss and step-father for FBI. Staying alive or/and sane in the process is entirely different matter. But as long as he gets the job done, what does Agent Gadreel Hopewell even care? Apparently very little if he seeks Michael so often.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions.

Gadreel is not sure about it at all. Victor says they should take the risk, because his source was pretty sure Milton might actually agree to it. But Gadreel was skeptic. On the other hand it’s might be their only chance because Elias Novak is impossible to charge without direct evidence. All his people keep silence. They literally have nothing.

And Milton? They suspected he was involved in his foster-father shady business, but from what Victor’s contact told him he made his adopted son his iron fist. No direct evidence of course. They don’t have anything on him either. Or they actually have, but there is no evidence it was him.

Milton is sitting in the interrogation room of Chicago police Department. He’s young, 24 years old, fitting dark grey suit, expression bored. Damn, he looks like he owns the place. Well, he is here under excuse of traffic infraction. Not exactly excuse, the guy drives like Mad Max as Officer Harvelle has put it, but usually everything solves on the scene.

Milton occasionally checks his watch. Victor finally returns with file and Gadreel follows him into the room, switching off the camera.

He locks the door behind them but Milton shows no sign of nervousness.

“You are not just cops, aren’t you gentlemen? What do I owe the pleasure? Surely not to my careless driving,” he smiles pleasantly and his green eyes sparkle in the glimmer of interrogation room.

Gadreel and Victor sit in front of him and Victor slams the folder on the table.

“Mr. Milton,” starts Victor.

“Oh, please, call me Michael, we are not in a courtroom,” young man puts on his charm. It doesn’t impress Victor.

“Fine, Michael then. Agent Henriksen, this is Agent Hopewell, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Victor uses his interrogation voice. But it has no effect on Milton.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” his eyes pass from Victor to Gadreel. He waits patiently for them to speak, doesn’t jump to conclusions, keeps his cool.

“Know what we have here?” Victor puts rather thick folder on the table with a flap.

“X-ray vision sadly is not one of my many talents. Enlighten me, agents,” he puts his elbows on the table and leans to them, feigning interest. Of course he knows.

“Arms trafficking, drugs, murder, robbery, theft, human trafficking…” at the last one Michael’s brows shot up but he quickly collects himself.

“This is Chicago, like endless Tarantino’s movie. But I’ve heard it’s even worse in Detroit,” Michael smiles wider and Gadreel has to contain his own smile at how true it is. “Can I go now?”

“Not yet. We have an offer, Michael,” Gadreel enters conversation. Michael narrows his eyes and Gadreel catches a short glance toward the cam. “Cam’s off, no recorders. Just you and us,” he hurries to reassure.

“And here I started to think your partner is mute,” Milton tells Victor. “I assume I don’t have a choice but listen to your offer,” he addresses both and leans on chair’s back, pretending to be relaxed. Or maybe he was relaxed, but Gadreel doubts it.

“Let’s talk about your father, Michael.”

“Why don’t we talk about yours, Agent?” Milton asks innocently. “No? Okay. My father. Which one?”

“Your foster-father,” Victor confirms what Michael already knew. There is no records of his biological father.

“My father is a modest writer, busy parent, faithful husband. Anything specific I can tell you?” seems like Milton learnt playing this game long time ago.

“Quit it, Milton,” Victor start losing patience, which is not good.

“As I said, Michael. Nothing will leave these walls,” oh great, now they are playing good cop and bad cop. Well done, Hopewell.

“Tell me your offer then, agents. No foreplay, please,” something dangerous hides in his eyes this time.

“What, like it rough, Milton?” Victor just couldn’t let it pass by. 

“You have no idea, Agent,” Michael pronounces the words in a low tone and the pause hangs. He looks at them with the challenge. This is getting awkward. Gadreel met people who can wield their their sexuality like a weapon, Milton is definitely one of them.  

As Gadreel opens mouth to speak Milton beats him to it. “You can’t bring charges against my father, because you have nothing. None of this crap you have in your folder leads to him. The question is, are you that desperate to ask _me_ of all people to help you find those missing leads?”

Victor and Gadreel exchange glances and Victor does that thing with his eyebrows that means ‘go on’.

“You being here answers your question, doesn’t it? ”

Michael folds his arms, it’s a protective gesture.

“What do you want from me?”

“We need evidence. Anything.”

“Strange thing, agents… you know who I am. You know who he is. And yet you’re asking me this,” says Michael but Gadreel can see that he considers.

“Do you really want to lead this kind of life, Michael? This ‘family business’?” he presses.

“There is nothing else for me…” there is a ‘but’, it has to be.

“What about you step-brother? He is 17, won’t he become like you?” Victor knows which buttons to push, Gadreel has to give him that. .

“Not if I can do something about this,” somehow it sounds sure and weak at the same time.

“But can you? You are foster child, makes sense to me that you brother is the heir,” before Milton can say anything Victor continues. “Yes, we know who you are, Michael. You are your daddy’s problem solver, his blunt instrument, disciplined little soldier. But we also heard that you actually have some consciousness, even sense of justice…”

“My sense of justice is horribly twisted, I’m afraid,” Milton chuckles, “Even if I get you evidence, putting my father behind the bars won’t be easy. And if you do, another problem will come up. But you already know that, agents,” they aware, of course. Empty throne won’t be empty for long. There will be chaos. Some of their colleagues consider Elias Novak a lesser evil.   

“Law is the law. And he is a criminal,” and Victor being Victor. But that what Gadreel respects him for.

“Principles… I can respect that. But I have principles too and betraying family is not one of them. But… give me at least few minutes to think,” he asks not looking at them for the first time.

They silently leave Milton alone in the room.

“That’s a good sign,” comments Gadreel.

Victor’s brows furrow in doubt, but he agrees with a small nod. He goes to get coffee (he hasn’t been sleeping for 50 hours at least) and Gadreel goes to watch their guest.

Milton stands up but doesn’t start pacing as Gadreel expected him to. He doesn’t take folder Victor left on the table deliberately, doesn’t even look at it. He leans to the wall opposite to the mirror. He knows he’s being watched.

From what Gadreel knows this guy committed at least dozen murders in cold blood. He might be a psychopath. But agent can’t escape the thought that he’s just being used, that he had no choice. But… there is always a choice. And now Michael is considering it, that’s what important now.

Despite his high profiling skills he can’t figure Milton out.

Suddenly Gadreel catches himself thinking that he would give anything to know what exactly is going on behind calm and even playful behavior, behind the smile that just screams ‘fake!’ and those stunning eyes. Wait, wha..? Seems like someone besides Victor needs more sleep. This job is a bitch. Not that they would change it for anything.

Michael lifts his eyes and it feels like he’s staring right at him. He goes back to the table and just sits back on his place. Does it mean he’s ready? Probably not. Whole life might be not enough to make a decision like this. Still Victor has played well.

“Did he looked through the files?” asks freshen-up Victor.

“No, ignored the folder completely.”

“Well, maybe that’s for the better. Ok, time’s up,” concludes his partner and they go back into interrogation room.

“Have you made up your mind, Michael?” asks Victor.

“In fact I did, agents,” he says in tone that suggests bad news for them. “You have put me in very difficult position…” he looks pensive and then all of sudden his lips widen in a grin, “I’m in.”

Wow. That was unexpectedly easy. Michael continues all business-like.

“No wire, no your cool tracing devices and stay away from me. The further – the better. Once I get anything of value for FBI I’ll contact you. I’m risking a lot agreeing to work for you as it is. Please, understand my predicament.”

Victor and Gadreel exchange glances and silently agree not to argue. But…

“Can we trust you, Michael?” Gadreel studies pale face in front of him. Michael laughs like he’s just heard a good joke.

“As my friend likes to say: you can put price on anything – things, nothings, words, silence,  information, life, you can even sell your soul or buy someone else’s, but trust… you just can’t afford it,” he finishes almost whispering.

Gadreel would like to disagree.

“Interesting friends you have, Mister Milton. Does it mean ‘no’?”  specifies Victor.

“I’ll do what I can. I can’t promise you anything. If I get caught… Actually I’d rather not think about it,” understandable. But some guarantees would be great. But they have no right to ask that from Milton. The fact that he agreed is enough.

“About guarantees for our part… ” starts Gadreel.

“No. Let’s not speak about it yet,” cuts him off Michael.

“But…” that’s not how things are done.

“No, Agent. Can I go now? I might be mistaken, but it seems to me we all need some sleep,” only now Gadreel notices that his eyes are bloodshot. Strange, usually he detects this kind of things immediately.

“Of course. But I must ask you to contact us at least once a week, so we know you are still alive,” makes the last request Victor.

“I’ll see what I can do,” says Michael dismissively and walks out the room.

Can they count on him? Can they be sure he won’t sell them out as soon as he walks out the building? Gadreel isn’t sure. But still this is something.  Summing up the whole negotiation Victor mutters:

“He is so full of shit, man…”

Gadreel silently agrees. Not that they’ve expected anything else. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not making Chuck Michael's father because if I did he'd be horribly out of character. So I named the guy Elias which means 'God'.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflection, uninvited guests and twilight sleep.

Wasn’t that a great start of the morning? Being stopped by a police officer at 5 a.m. and dragged into nearest police station. The road was completely empty so he could have exceeded the speed a little bit. But when he arrived and waited for long 40 minutes he finally got what happened. Feds. As soon as they entered the interrogation room Michael knew what was going on.

FBI. Well, it’s not like he could avoid them forever. But he expected the first meeting to be much less friendly.  

Agents Henriksen and Hopewell… both seem like those obsessed guys shown in the movies, especially Henriksen. Michael wonders how many girlfriends ditched them, because they are obviously married to their job. Nonetheless he kind of liked them and couldn’t resist teasing them a little.

The decision to work for them is the craziest he ever made, even beats that time when he decided that walking unarmed into the bar full of angry Mexicans was a good idea. But Agent Hard-Ass made a valid point. Nick is seventeen. Gabriel and Raphael are younger, but… Michael started ‘working’ for father when he was sixteen. And seeing Nick becoming like him or like their father is the last thing he wants. But knowing Nick, he won’t turn like them; he’ll become something much worse. He has potential, he’s passionate, ambitious and aggressive. It’s not bad, Michael rather admires those traits of his brother. But should you turn this energy into wrong direction, you’ll get a monster. And this scares Michael. Better let Nick do his paintings and photography and whatever harmless things he does, even if lately his pictures are all grim and creepy as hell.

Yes, father gave him home, family and he is grateful. He loved his new brothers and sister as soon as he met them. He got attached to Naomi, his foster-mother, she was always nice to him. And of course he loves father, who was strict but he made Michael feel like he means something, even that day when he shoved a gun into his hand. In the end Michael is indeed father’s soldier and a problem-solver, just like Agent said. And without father he might be no one, but if his future is more or less determined, he wants a different future for his siblings.

But… as much as Michael wants to believe he only has his family’s benefit in mind, he knows there is something else. Maybe he wants to prove father wrong because he thinks he tamed Michael. But he did. Michael doubts he will be able to lie if father corners him and asks a straight question. Thankfully, father almost never asks straight questions.  One thing Michael knows for sure, the risk is big and he likes it. Playing with fire is bad, he was taught this not once, but he just can’t help it.

“Ok, Speedy Racer, we are back,” Officer Harvele has nicely offered him a ride where his car was left.

“You are very kind, Officer. I could kiss you, really,” he is sincere.

Blond policewoman rolls her eyes.

“Bag your ass out of my car, Casanova,” she smirks and he’s glad to obey. Michael shouldn’t like cops this much. He hopes they won’t meet again.

His car, black Eagle Talon 1991, of the same age as him, is where he left her, nobody jacked it. Father’s present on his 17th birthday. First thing first he checks his cellphone he left in glove compartment. No missed calls. No wonder, it’s not even 7 a.m. But he’ll have to tell he was detained anyway. Half-truth will be easier than both lie and honesty.

Suddenly Michael remembers what he forgot to do. 

He searches for GPS tracker under the frame of the vehicle and surprisingly and unsurprisingly actually finds it. Is that why he was sitting in that stupid room for so long? Or it could be someone else, anyone really. These people never learn. He sighs and throws the device into nearest trashcan. Bingo.

Michael leans against his car and inhales the morning air. On reflex his hand slips into the jacket pocket and reappears with a lighter.  He looks at his hands as if they are alien when they play with it. He’s afraid. Only now he realizes just how nervous he is. He looks at orange tongue of flame that gently licks his fingers and feels how painfully sharp his senses became after sleepless night. He can barely concentrate on flame in his slightly shaking hands and not be lost in the morning chill and noise of metro trains. But he couldn’t blame lack of sleep for a stupid thing he’s done. When father knows (it’s not an ‘if’ question) it’s going to be ugly. Michael can only hope it won’t be today. For now he has nothing to give FBI. He has no idea where father keeps documentation of any sorts and knows only one accountant who sadly is not the one and only. FBI wants to arrest him for everything they had in that stupid folder, but hey, Al Capone was arrested for tax evasion.  It’s not too late to decline, he hasn’t promised agents anything.

 _‘Can we trust you, Michael?’_ echoes agent Hopewell’s question. That man looked like he really wanted to trust him. And Michael wants to be trusted. But trust is extremely high-priced commodity. You either demand everything for it, either give it for free. It’s priceless, and Michael might pay with his life for it.

It is late to change mind anyway. Even if he turns around now, father will know he agreed, he always does in the end. Michael has made his choice. Maybe the only _right_ choice he’s ever made. Hopefully not the last.

Sudden wind gust makes him shiver blowing out flame of his lighter and stream of thought in his heavy head. He needs to be in more productive state of mind to think clearly. He closes the silver lighter and trails his thumb along the wing pattern on its surface before putting it back in the pocket. It’s a present too, from another important person in his life. 

Michael gets back into his car and turns the ignition key saying:

“Let’s go home, sister.”

In 20 minutes he parks by the apartment building in Devon where he lives. On the stairs he meets the old janitor, uncle Vanya all the tenants call him. Old man shouts him a cheerful ‘Morning, Misha!’ to which Michael can only nod weakly and proceeds with his choirs humming some song. Otherwise it’s quiet. Everyone sleeps like normal people do early Saturday morning.

His little apartment is on the fourth floor. He drops his shoes as soon as he enters and drags into the kitchen. Oh, great, he has guests. The day gets better and better.

“I don’t remember giving you keys, Bela,” he drawls dryly. He knows she’s the last person who would need some keys to open a door.

“Good morning, Mike. I’ve been waiting here for hours. Where have you been?” she asks in a tone suggesting it’s her business.

 “Are you my wife to question me?” it comes out harsher than he intended.

“If only,” she chuckles unfazed, “We’d have such beautiful children.” Before she starts talking again Michael takes glass of water before her and drains it. It’s rude, but this is his home.  

“Long night?” she gives a passable impression of sympathy.

“Nights. I’m going to bed. You may see yourself out any time,” whatever she wants from him can wait. He needs at least few hours.  “Leave me a note on a fridge if it’s anything important.”

She pouts but he pretends she doesn’t exist in this dimension anymore and creeps out of kitchen to the bedroom.

“I’m not going anywhere yet! I’ve got big plans for you!” she yells from kitchen and Michael is too tired to give a damn.

“Then wake me up in three hours!” he yells back. Hopefully in these three hours he will return to more courteous self.

As long as Bela doesn’t burn his home she can do whatever she wants. There is nothing for her to steal here anyway.

Unfortunately he can’t fall asleep at once. Or rather he falls into this state where you can’t tell for sure if you’re awake or sleeping. It’s usual for him. He is vaguely aware of Bela’s quiet catlike steps behind the door and the dog barking outside. His ears are filled with other sounds. Voices. He can barely remember faces behind those voices, but the sound them soaked into his grey matter. They lull him into the real sleep.

 _You don’t have to do this, kid…_ Scared, pleading.

 _You won’t – someone else will._ Cold, calm.

 _I feel like I just don’t know you anymore, Mike._ Worried, annoyed.

 _Don’t you see your daddy is using you? Or do you just like it that way? Oh, you do…_ Mocking, heavy.

 _You are prey or a predator, there is no middle way._ Certain, with hidden fondness.

 _Wasn’t that hard, was it?_ Pleased, praising.

Voices that speak languages he can’t understand. And new voices.

 _You really think you are immortal, huh?_ Threatening, threatened.

 _Do you really want to lead this kind of life, Michael?_ Hopeful, meaningful.

 _No. Not really._ This one is his own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idle talks and missed calls.

Michael is falling. Breathtaking terrifying sense of piercing empty space with blood chilling speed floods his mind pushing out everything else. He's falling but never falls. He always wakes up before learning how deep this rabbit hole actually goes. He has these dreams often as of late. They don't bother him much. He can admit he even likes them. Funny how the dreams of flying he had as a child frightened him more.  
Sunlight comes through the curtains painting the room in light shade of blue. Blanket is tossed on the floor. Alarm clock on the nightstand shows 12:52.

He rubs his barely rested eyes and sits up before giving in to the temptation of sleeping whole day through. He cringes when he hears a loud clatter from... his kitchen? Before he reaches to the drawer for the gun he remembers he has a guest. Usually he's not that paranoid, but... He slowly exhales and instead reaches for the cellphone on the floor. He has five missed calls. Reasonably deciding he can't deal with it right now he picks up the blanket and throws it back on the bed. Shower first, everything else - later.

"Sorry, didn't have a heart to wake you," Bela is standing in the doorway ogling him shamelessly. Well, he's got nothing she hasn't seen already.

"You not having heart... what else is new?" Michael replies sarcastically, but words are heavy and taste disgusting in his mouth.

"Go take your shower. Shave won't hurt too," she recommends and starts examining pictures on the wall with interest.

He grabs a pair of loose sweatpants and stumbles out of his bedroom.

Michael takes his time washing away unpleasant feeling left by past days on his skin. He got used that water in this building is never hot or too cold and tastes nasty.

He feels a little cleaner after shower, but not much fresher.

There are two mugs of coffee on the kitchen table. Bela is studying a newspaper with strangely grave expression, but immediately plasters a smile on her face when she shows Michael the front page.

"Rise of Dick," she quotes in her most serious voice and giggles, "Are they serious?"

Michael can only nod and smile as he sips his coffee. The amount of stupid dick jokes in media has increased recently. But that's a thing, Mr. Roman likes when he's not taken seriously, so he can play with his prey.

"But, you know..." Bela mused, "He's young, successful, handsome... and single."

"Yeah, go for it," encourages her Michael, "At least you'll have a place in Chicago where you can crash without picking a lock." He knows she can afford a nice hotel room, but she often prefers breaking into his apartment.

"Oh, please, you like my company," she said with certain level of confidence. "And I wouldn't disturb you if you were not alone." As if.

"By the way, I couldn't help noticing you have 'enlivened' your low-key flat," she glances up at the painting with rather grim still life on it. "Artist's logo is the same as on pictures in other two rooms," an L in some occult surrounding, pentagram or whatever it is.

"It's my brother's. He said my place is dull and hung them on the walls," Michael liked his place just fine but Nick insisted and he couldn't say no. Before Bela can continue an idle talk, he asks, "So what the big plans do you have for me?"

"Patience is a virtue, Mike," she replies mysteriously.

"I'm plenty virtuous, but I don't want a repeat of the last time, when I learned your plans only after your angry German boyfriend put a gun to my head," that was fun though.

"Poor Dan was Dutch and he wasn't my boyfriend."

"He seemed to think he was," commented Michael. "So what this time? You've got a diverse clientele. A picture? Another family relic?" Bela only hums in response. "Do you want me to keep guessing?"

She's impossible and she enjoys it.

He puts his mug in the sink and remembers he has to make few calls. He can feel Bela's eyes on his back, there. People never get used seeing it. This big ugly mark fire left across his back. He stopped let it bother him long ago, but others are always bothered.

"You never told where you got this," Bela says almost too quiet.

"You never told me who you are," he replies in same manner.

"Fair enough."

Michael has a feeling they both wouldn't mind learning more about each other considering the nature of their relationship. But they never will. They just don't need to. He suspects Bela is in trouble this time, more than usual. But isn't he? He trusts her as long as she trusts him, that is enough.

Michael goes to the bedroom and makes the bed first. He likes when even his room is in order. Then he picks up his phone and checks the missed calls. Zach called at 9 a.m. Two calls from unknown number and two recent calls from father. Two calls. He has to call back. Bela has distracted him but no way in hell he could forget what he's gotten himself into. If he's going to lie father in the face he might start now.

He sits on the floor back to the bed and dials this number before he can change his mind. By the third beep his hand starts shaking, he blames it on exhaustion. Time seems to go impossibly slow and Michael can't register the moment when he hears soft:

"Michael?"

Strangely this voice calms him down. It always does. Father has had this influence on him since they first met. And inexplicable power over his whole existence.

"Hey... sorry for not answering, I've been sleeping," he explains himself.

"It's okay, son. I was worried," Michael barely suppresses another 'sorry'. Damn, he feels guilty. "Long night?"

"Very," admits Michael. "Our Italian friends had a quarrel with Chinese. Luckily they reached a peaceful solution," he reports as much as he can before they meet personally.

"With your involvement?"

"My part in this was more than modest," or else he would have a cleaning instead of nap. "I'm afraid it's not over yet."

"We'll talk about business tonight," and Michael dreads it. "More importantly, how are you?"

_More importantly?_

"I'm... I'm fine. Just... tired, and..." he better say it now before father learns from someone else. Or does he know already? "I was on nerves and exceeded speed a little. An officer stopped me and made me sit in CPD for an hour or so. She was in bad mood," he manages to say it not too quickly as he expected he would.

At first there is silence. Then Michael hears a deep chuckle.

"Well, I'm surprised they haven't caught you earlier, with your driving skills..."

"Hey!" he's not that bad and father only teases him. Michael allows himself to relax.

"See you tonight, son. Naomi and kids miss you too."

Michael feels himself smile doubtfully.

"Sure. Bye."

But he doesn't hang up first. He doesn't dare. It isn't a test or anything, but it's how it is. He holds his breath, tensing once again. Why is this so hard? Father hangs up in seconds really, but those seconds last too long for Michael. He isn't even sure father has hung up, before he looks on display. He isn't even sure he's relieved. No, he's sure he isn't. Damn it.

He wonders if he should call that unknown number and decides against it. They (whoever they are) will call again if it's anything important. He decides not to call Zach either, who knows what old man is up to. 

Michael suddenly notices he copies a pose of that... creature on one of Nick's painting, like he tries to make himself small enough to fit into the world. He drops his phone on the bed and looks at old picture on the nightstand.

"What am I gonna do, mom?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the family.

Michael arrives earlier than he intended. Well, truthfully he just wanted to escape Bela's curious glances she sent him from behind her laptop. Discerning woman is a dangerous woman. But Naomi is no less sharp. She welcomes him with her watchful and strict blue eyes, and Michael wonders what she can see. For better or worse his foster mother (but he never calls Naomi mother, because she's only 13 years older than him) prefers to keep all she sees to herself, Michael tried to absorb that trait from her for years. He kisses her cheek and offers to help with diner. Sometimes she accepts, but not this time.

His two youngest siblings are still out and father has gone to pick them up. So Michael just goes to Nick's room (it was his room too). Surprisingly this teenage nightmare is trying to study there. Algebra. Huh. Michael used to do most of his homework during the breaks. Not because he was smart or something, but because he had other 'activities' after school. His marks were average at best.

"Are you gonna stand there and breathe down my neck or help me with this fucking trig stuff?"

"Language," chides him Michael.

"I've got the best marks in English classes," retorts his brother.

"Sure, I'd give you A+ for swearing," answers Michael smiling.

"I haven't even started yet, Mike," Nick warns.

"I believe I had heard it all when you were twelve," thankfully for Nick, he swore like a trooper only in this room. Or Naomi would wash his mouth with a laundry soap.

Nick groans in frustration and buries his nose into the books and papers and Michael decides to have mercy and help. Surprisingly he hasn't yet forgotten the 'trig stuff'. But he only points out the mistakes so that he won't end up doing his brother's homework and sprawls on the lower bank.

"It's my bed!" of course little devil (or not so little, he's as tall as Michael now) would complain.

"Since when?"

"Since you moved your ass out, Mikey," Nick makes it sound like Michael is the petulant child here.

Lying down was a bad idea. He starts dozing off again, but has little to no will to get up. Pressing his palms into his eyes he slides down and sits cross-legged on the floor instead. Nick threw him a suspicious glare.

"Seems like someone had hell of a night," he says with tiny bit of envy. He thinks Michael has fun every night. Well, sometimes he does.

"It was hell of a night," he replies honestly.

Nick snorts and pointedly stops paying attention to Michael.

Michael is half asleep when he hears Raphael and Gabriel bickering. They do that a lot lately. A difficult age, he supposes. His own difficult stage passed unnoticed for the most part. He forces his lazy body up and goes to meet them, leaving Nick to his misery.

In the hallway he finds his annoyed sister, sneering brother and very much amused father.

"Mikey! Mikey!" Gabriel is itching to share something. And Raphael glares at him murderously. "Raphy's got a bo-oyfrie- Ouch!" Raphael poked his side with her sharp nail. 

"Don't listen to him, Michael! He's being a moron!" if Michael didn't know better, he'd say she was more flustered at such accusation than usual.

Michael can't help smiling. He just loves them. Loves that they are not like him at all. But he also feels a tingle of regret that they are not really related.

Insufferable 12 year-old hides behind him and continues:

"Am not! But puh-lease don't try to tell you weren't holding hands and being all lovey-dovey!"

Before Raphael starts throwing lightnings Michael wades in:

"And what exactly do you know about being lovey-dovey, Gabriel?"

"I-" the boy stutters and it's Raphael's turn to have fun.

"Yes, tell us about that pretty Indian girl you've been staring at at school for ages."

"Shut up! Fine, 1-1 this time!" And Gabriel runs away.

"Coward," huffs Raphael and goes to her own room, hugging Michael on her way.

Kids, everything is competition for them. But... now he's alone with father and the world doesn't seem to end. Yet.

"You sure know how to handle teenagers, always know what to say," chuckles father.

"Well, I was one after all," Michael tries.

"You were different, Michael. Awfully quiet, like you were not even there," and docile too. Michael did everything to be a good son, to not waste a chance destiny gave him. He didn't know the real price to it back then.

Dinner passes lively thanks to Gabe and Raph and Nick constantly pouring oil on flames. Naomi asks Michael if he has someone and if he does why he never takes them for family dinner. And after that all the stupid joke from his siblings starts flying towards him. As if they don't know who they are dealing with, really. He knows all their moves by now. He valiantly stands his ground until Nick mentions Rachel, Michael's first girlfriend he never got going to prom with. That was a low blow, but he can't really blame Nick, because there is no way he could know what really happened. Michael has to suppress the wish to spit some poison as well. Firstly, because he has to be better than this, secondly, he would give away just how wrought-up he is at the moment.

The rest of the evening is more peaceful and enjoyable. Father and Naomi discuss something in the kitchen, while their children argue what movie they should watch. It's almost believable that they are just family, without secrets. But simple 'We should talk' tears Michael out of the illusion.

Father's cabinet is small. Just desk, two chairs and bookshelves. Michael takes his place as usual. Father switches light on and locks the door quietly. Michael shivers a little and father notices. He notices everything. Soon he's back and leans on the table next to the chair Michael is sitting on.

"I've heard the conflict was due to the loss of some important shipment, wasn't it?"

Business is good. Michael can talk about business.

"Yes. Very expensive, but no one told me what sort of shipment that was," which wasn't uncommon, but both parties acted suspiciously discreet about the whole thing. Well, it wasn't Michael's business. "Mafia accused Triad, since they control large part of the docks."

"Typically. I'm glad it didn't come to bloodshed, but Don Giovanni implied that compensation is necessary when I spoke to him earlier today."

"Compensation? From us?" now this was outrageous. "After they refused the protection of this blasted shipment and said they've got it? Sorry father, but this is bullshit. We owe them nothing."

Michael is surprised at himself, father seems amused. He tilts his head and blond hair with barely visible grey streaks fall on his forehead. Michael lowers his eyes and looks on his knees in abashment.

"Exactly my thoughts, Michael," warm fingers on his jaw forces him to look father in the eyes again. Grey steel. "And it's your job to make it clear to everyone."

"I know," it is his job.

"That's my boy," father brushes Michael's hair with his fingers and Michael hates such a praise, but at the same time craves every little show of affection father has to spare. He never felt like he deserved it, but can't help accepting it like some precious drops of water in the desert. He is thirsty. He is so dry inside it's scary. Father rests his hand on the back of his neck. "Is there anything else you want to tell me, Michael?"

There it is. He is very much aware how strong that hand is. If it chooses to choke him he will let it happen.

"Many things, to be honest," Michael admits and his voice shakes. So many, every damn thing. "Sometime I don't know what to do and sometimes I have no idea what I'm doing."

Michael doesn't say anything else this night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming soon.


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